


November, 1994

by WolfRune20855



Series: The Basics of Broom Magic [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Cousins, F/F, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, Inspired by The Rigel Black Chronicles, M/M, Minor Character Death, Quidditch, Tea, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-21 12:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30021522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfRune20855/pseuds/WolfRune20855
Summary: November for Marcus and Katie.
Relationships: Alicia Spinnet/Original Character(s), Katie Bell/Marcus Flint, Leanne/Original Character
Series: The Basics of Broom Magic [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179386
Comments: 21
Kudos: 41





	1. Falmouth vs Wimbourne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Falmouth Falcons play the Wimbourne Wasps. 

“Oi! You lot! Shut up!” Alicia chuckled silently as Angelina's bellowing silenced the chatter in the Gryffindor common room completely. She reached across from her friend, turning up the volume on the wireless. Horne and O’Hair, the Wizarding Wireless Network’s quidditch commentators, were hosting the pre-game show, setting up the main event. 

Falmouth versus Wimbourne. It promised to be an interesting game. The Wasps had foolishly traded the Bell brothers to the Falcons, gaining their mediocre-but-pureblood beaters in turn. The three remaining Wasp team members who had played alongside the Bell brothers were familiar with their style, which meant neither team had the element of surprise. The Falcons had risen from their position at the bottom of the league, currently 1:1, having only lost to Puddlemere by a technicality. It had been 170 to 40 until the deduction for destroying the snitch. Every quidditch fan was on the edge of their seat for this match.

There was a group gathered around the wireless. Angelina and Alicia had managed to snag a couch, but several witches and wizards were gathered on the floor. Most of them were witches, Alicia noticed, drawn into the sport by the _Witch Weekly_ article and eyes that shone like emeralds. Alicia wasn’t one to get mad at people for how they discovered their love for quidditch, but jealousy stirred in her gut. 

“Gilbert’s so dreamy,” a dark-haired third-year sighed. He had stars in his eyes. Alicia frowned.

Fred flopped down on the opposite side of Alicia. “And you said no one pays attention to beaters, Ange.” 

“They don’t,” Angelina reaffirmed her previous statement. Alicia arched an eyebrow at Angelina. Her best friend shook her head. They both knew Angelina paid plenty of attention to beaters when they had red hair and freckles. “Everyone keeps their eyes on the quaffle.”

“Then how come everyone's talking about the Bell brothers?” George decided that the lack of available space was not a problem for him. Rather than squeezing himself into the couch as Alicia expected, he sprawled out across their legs, his head in Angelina’s lap. The girl struggled to find words.

Thankfully, Lavender Brown answered for her. “Because they’re _hot_. You’re just _ugh_.” 

“You hear that, Freddie? We’re _ugh_.” George mocked Lavender’s snort of disgust, pitching his voice up several octaves. 

“ _Ugh_ ,” Fred repeated. 

Not one to be outdone, George adopted a ridiculous accent. “Uu-gh.”

“Yao-guh.”

“Ugh-hah.”

“UGH!” 

“Please stop,”Alicia begged. If the Weasley twins continued, she was sure she’d get a migraine. She had an essay to finish. A migraine wouldn’t help with that. 

“What’s it worth to you if we stop?” Fred’s grin was practically feral. 

“Perhaps an introduction,” George suggested, “to, oh, I don’t know, Elliot-”

“And Gilbert-”

“Bell,” George finished. 

Angelina frowned. “She doesn’t even know them.” A lie. Alicia knew Gilbert very well. 

“But she knows their sister. As do you.”

“I’ve heard Katherine’s darling,” Fred said. 

“Why do you care so much?” Alicia asked, trying to keep her suspicion out of her expression. 

“Because they’re the best bearers in the league!” George explained. 

Fred added, “Besides, Charlie-” 

“And Bill-”

“And Ronnie-kins-” 

“And Ginny-”

“Will be jealous if we befriend famous quidditch players.” 

“Don’t forget Percy,” George said. 

“Right, Percy. Talk about a wizard who has too many opinions about quidditch considering he hates the sport.”

“You want an introduction to the Bell brothers—who I don’t know—because it will make the rest of your family jealous?” Somehow, Alicia found that hard to believe. The Weasley twins were more mischievous than that. Simple jealousy was not enough for them. They always wanted to take things to the next level. 

“Yep.”

“Exactly.”

“Sounds fishy, Lee,” Angelina said. Alicia found herself agreeing. 

“ _Oh and here come the players,”_ Horne said over the wireless. _“From the Wimbourne Wasps: Keeper Alice Jenkins, Beaters Humphrey Smith and Felix Nightshade, Chasers Jonah Craft, Ariana Lovegood, and Loren Shafiq, and your seeker, Gregory Macdonald.”_

 _“The crowd goes wild as the home team finally emerges,”_ O’Hair continued seamlessly. _“Keeper Lavinia Macmillian, Beaters Elliot and Gilbert Bell-”_ Alicia couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips at the mention of Gilbert. _“Chasers Ryland Walsh, Cassian Jones, and-”_

* * *

“Marcus Flint!” 

Katie’s cheering was lost in the roaring of the crowd. She could feel her da’s knowing eyes on her, but she didn’t care. She was cheering for the Falcons—for her brothers’ team. No one could fault her for that. She kept cheering as the seeker, Merideth Griffiths, was announced. The Falcons flew around the pitch in formation, their black robes making them a menacing sight to behold. The yellow-clad Wasps almost looked comical in comparison.

Katie grinned from ear to ear as the snitch was released, the bludgers unchained, and the quaffle tossed in the air. She couldn’t help it. She _loved_ quidditch. The game was off to a quick start as Lovegood snatched the quaffle and zoomed towards the Falcon’s goal. 

“This’ll be a good game,” Franklin commented. 

Katie nodded in agreement. Her brothers had been looking forward to pummeling the Wasps all week. They wouldn’t be pulling any punches. Katie’s thoughts were confirmed as a bludger smacked off of Elliot’s bat, heading straight for Lovegood. She ducked, barely managing to avoid the ball. The movement slowed down her momentum. Marcus and Walsh caught up with her, closing in around her. Elbows shot out. Shoulders jostled. Lovegood dropped the quaffle. It slipped through her fingers and into the waiting hands of Jones, who took off in the opposite direction. 

“It reminds me of watching you play,” Helena told her husband. “Back when the Cannons were at the top of the league.”

The muggleborn ban had affected all of the quidditch teams, but it had hit the Cannons the hardest, stripping them of their coaches and leaving them with one single reserve player. They still hadn’t managed to crawl their way back up the ranks. The Cannons were, and always would be, the worst in the league. The Falcons had remained second-to-last, mostly due to the large number of penalties they incurred. 

Katie’s eyes flicked between three figures, but, more often than not, they remained on Marcus. She was following the quaffle, she told herself. Serious quidditch fans always kept their eye on the quaffle. Holding up the enchanted binoculars her father had bought her for her twelfth birthday, Katie watched him sail across the sky. A natural flyer. A fast fighter. He was born to play quidditch. 

A quidditch chant started from the Wasps fans. Having spent the past two years cheering for her brothers’ team, she was familiar with it. _The Fucking Falmouth Falcons_ , it was called, used throughout the league to insult the black-clad team. 

_“The Fucking Falmouth Falcons,_

_Can’t even find a quaffle._

_Penalties are your specialty._

_We’ll fuck up the fucking falcons.”_

Quidditch chants weren’t known for being eloquent. Katie hid her smile at her mother’s displeased expression. Not ones to stand by and be insulted, the Falcons fans immediately returned with a chant of their own. 

_“Falcons eat Wasps for breakfast!”_

Some chants were simpler than others. Katie joined in on the chant, shouting the words at the top of her lungs. Franklin and Helena sang alongside her. Katie grinned. This was what she loved about quidditch. She’d been raised with it as a core value of her family. It was what had originally drawn her mother and father together. Quidditch crossed all barriers. Everyone could enjoy a good quidditch game. 

Except for Leanne.

Katie didn’t know how she’d managed to have a best friend who didn’t like quidditch. Leanne simply didn’t understand the draw to the sport. She didn’t enjoy the loud crowds or the violent tussles on brooms. Katie had told her it was what made the sport exciting—it increased the stakes of the game. Leanne had been slightly horrified at the suggestion. 

Thinking of Leanne, Katie's thoughts drifted, remembering her friend’s meeting with Cordelia. Her grandmother had been impressed by Leanne’s portfolio, and even more impressed that she was designing robes for Alicia and Angelina. Cordelia hadn’t promised anything, but she’d kept a copy of Leanne’s designs. It meant the world to Leanne, who was now convinced that Cordelia was the greatest witch since Morgana (to Katie’s annoyance). 

Leanne had a lot of strong opinions for a witch who was constantly double-guessing herself. Recently, she’d been insisting that Katie was wasting her youth. She knew that Helena wanted to secure Katie a match as soon as possible, and she wanted Katie to seize the opportunity to be young and wild before she was saddled with some pureblood. It was what Leanne was doing. Her parents weren’t as worried about finding her a match. Leanne was pretty and agreeable. They assumed that Leanne would be agreeable to whatever match she was handed, adapting to the situation as she adapted to everything else.

They didn’t know about Eva Titcher. 

No one knew about Eva, the muggleborn witch with who Leanne was in the process of falling madly in love. Katie had only found out about her the night before when Leanne had slept over at her house. Eva was a friend of one of Leanne’s designer friends, Nellie Opal. A fellow halfblood, Nellie was one of the few who’d gone to America for school, where she’d met and befriended Eva. Nellie usually hung out with Leanne during the summer—Katie only barely knew her. This year, Eva had tagged along, eager to meet Nellie’s brilliant designer friend. It had been love at first sight. 

As Leanne had explained to Katie last night, something about Eva just felt right. Katie wanted to meet the witch who had so fully captured Leanne’s heart. The way that Leanne had sighed as she recalled memories of the summer, clutching Eva’s letter to her chest, had stirred up envy in Katie’s heart. She couldn’t help but be envious of her. Leanne was throwing caution to the wind, embracing the possibility of loving Eva. Katie wanted to do the same.

She wondered what it would be like to kiss another person— _really_ kiss them. Romance novels made it seem so epic and consuming. She wondered… 

Katie’s gaze wandered over the field, keeping track of Marcus’s movements as he soared through the sky. His black robes sailed behind him making him look like a dementor. Katie frowned at the thought. Marcus had never elicited feelings of fear within Katie. Never. He scared her, though. Her dreams for the past week had been filled with images of him—of them together. Together in every sense of the word. 

Ever since she’d overheard him with Caelum, her thoughts had started to change. First, she’d considered that the possibility of them spending forever together wouldn’t be that bad. Then, it had transformed into a good thing. A good thing. Better than good. Great. _Just the two of them_ , like Grover Washington Jr. sang about. 

Katie was scared. She was scared of the possibility of falling in love with Marcus.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. 

Her focus on the game, Katie didn’t notice her father’s attention on her. She didn’t notice the knowing expression that washed across his face as he followed her line of sight, picking out the chaser in the front. Franklin Bell watched Marcus Flint soar through the air as precisely as a falcon. He watched Katie’s eyes follow his every move. He watched her grin widen as Marcus scored a goal. 

Franklin had always had a fantastic eye for detail. It was what made him such a great broom maker. He knew what these details meant. He wondered if Katie knew too.

* * *

“Fucking Shafiq.” Marcus chuckled as he stepped over where Rye was lying on the floor. A team healer squatted next to him, healing Rye’s broken wrist. 

It’d been broken when his former teammate decided to knock Rye off of his broom. Shafiq had gotten penalized for the action. They’d wanted to penalize Marcus and Cassian for their decision to get revenge on Shafiq by steering him straight into a goal post when he’d gone to score, but they technically hadn’t done anything illegal. Marcus thrived in the grey space between explicitly illegal and just-within-the-rules. Shafiq had broken his broom and spent the rest of the game hanging from the goal post, listening to Lavinia’s taunts. 

It’d been a great game. 

They’d won by fifty points. Merideth had caught the snitch, jostling the opposing seeker off of his broom at the last moment. It’d been wonderful to watch.

“You never liked Shafiq,” Merideth commented, tugging off her robes. “Even when he was on the team, you were always taunting him.”

“He’s an ass, that’s why.” Rye hissed in pain as the bone was set in place. “Thought he was better than the rest of us. At least Marcus doesn’t go around telling us that he thinks he’s better ‘cause he went to Hog-y-warts.”

Marcus didn’t think very highly of most of his pureblood peers. In truth, he respected his teammates more than he respected most of the population of Hogwarts. They could ride a broom. They could play quidditch. They weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. He didn’t tell Rye that, though, shrugging as he stripped and stepped in the shower. 

He let his thoughts drift as the hot water rolled over his shoulders. They’d won, leaving them 2:1, which meant that they were currently in the middle of the league. Ballycastle and Puddlemere were currently at the top with three wins each. Wigtown was at the bottom with three losses. This win tied them with Holyhead and Portree. The middle of the league. Impressive, considering where they’d been last season. 

Katie had come to the game. Marcus had caught a glimpse of her in the stands, cheering alongside her parents. He would like to think that she was cheering for him, but he knew better. Her brothers were on the team. She’d be cheering for the Falcons even if he weren’t playing for them. Still, it’d been nice to have her in the stands, supporting him. 

Turning off the shower, Marcus wandered back into the locker room and pulled on his casual robes. As usual, Lavinia had already left. Elliot leaned against his locker, his eyes closed as he waited for Gilbert to finish showering. Cassian was waiting for Ryeland so that they could grab a pint in celebration. Marcus had a standing invitation to join them, as did the rest of the team. He’d joined them once along with Merideth and Gilbert. The insults between Merideth and Cassian got more and more creative the more they drank. It’d been entertaining. 

Marcus wasn’t in the mood to grab a pint tonight. He’d spent the last three hours flying through the air. Despite himself, he was tired. He wanted nothing more than to go home, eat whatever Nilsy had made, and go to sleep. That sounded like a wonderful idea. 

With a nod to Cassian, Marcus slipped out of the locker room. He was surprised to see Franklin Bell waiting outside, chatting with Karl Broadmoor as if they were good friends. He was even more surprised when Franklin called his name as he passed by. “Marcus Flint.” 

Marcus stopped halfway down the hallway. Turning around, he watched Franklin pat Broadmoor on the back before jogging to catch up with him. Franklin Bell was a tall man—nearly as tall as Marcus. He had a knowing look in his eyes as he offered Marcus his hand. “Franklin Bell. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Nerves flared within Marcus as he took Franklin’s rough hand, shaking it. “Sir.”

“I told Katie to bring you around, but she doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to.” Franklin’s smile was relaxed and easy as if he and Marcus were good friends. 

Marcus didn’t tell him that the reason Franklin hadn’t met him yet was because he didn’t want Franklin to. Marcus didn’t want to meet Katie’s father. She respected and loved him. Franklin was the one person in the world who might be able to convince Katie to stop her friendship with Marcus. He wasn’t willing to take that risk. 

“You look a lot like your father,” Franklin said. “For your sake and Katie’s, I hope you’re nothing like him. If you are-”

“I’m not,” Marcus said. He wasn’t anything like his father. Julian Flint was a monster. 

“Good. That’s good.” Franklin nodded. “Some good flying you did out there, son. Looks like the Falcons just might stand a chance with you and the boys. Of course, three of you are flying Bell brooms, and your seeker’s on a Bala, so that helps.” Franklin paused for a moment, thinking. “We’re going out to celebrate as a family. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

Marcus’s face remained impassive, but he was gobsmacked that Franklin would make such an offer. His friendship with Katie was a secret and it had to stay one in order to keep her safe, yet her father wanted to share it with the world. Franklin Bell was an odd man. “I’ve got plans,” he said.

Franklin nodded in understanding. “If you change your mind, we’ll be at the Leaky.” 

“I won’t,” Marcus told him. 

He left Franklin in the hallway as Elliot and Gilbert emerged from the locker rooms. Franklin wrapped an arm around both of his sons, congratulating them on a game well played. _How different the Bells were from the Flints,_ Marcus thought as he left the stadium. Stepping into the crisp November air, he apparated with a crack. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never imagined I'd see the day where I was writing explicit quidditch chants, yet here we are.
> 
> I'd realized that the one-shot series had totally skewed the ships in the _Inspired by the Rigel Black Chronicles_ tag. From now on, I'm publishing the one-shots in multi-chapter fics separated by month. It will skew the ships a little bit less. Four more parts for November.


	2. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aldon Rosier visits his grandmother for tea.

There were at least eight places that Aldon Rosier would have rather been at the moment than in his grandmother’s floo parlor, getting the soot dusted from his shoulders by her house-elf, Dilly. Hogwart, obviously, was the highest on the list, closely followed by Hogsmeade and the Rosier and Rookwood Estates. His father’s offices at the Ministry came next, then Diagon Alley. Platform 9 ¾ was certain to be more pleasant. Even the Forbidden Forest was preferable to tea with Cordelia Rosier, but Aldon wouldn’t dare to refuse the dowager viscountess. He was smarter than that. 

Aldon loved his grandmother, truly he did, but he didn’t like her. She wasn’t a very kind person. The word nice wasn’t in her vocabulary. She said whatever came to mind—seeming to lack a filter entirely, but Aldon knew better. Cordelia’s personality put her enemies off guard, which always made them surprised when she inevitably stabbed them in the back. She didn’t seem capable of lying, but lying barely scratched the surface of what she was willing to do to get what she wanted. 

What Cordelia Rosier wanted right now was her family. Her _whole_ family. She wanted to bring the five members that they didn’t speak of back into the fold as if nothing had ever happened. The prodigal daughter returning alongside her muggleborn husband and halfblood children. Aldon couldn’t stand the thought.

He didn’t consider himself to be blood prejudice. He, like his father, was pragmatic. Being a pureblood helped him get ahead in life. It gave him certain advantages. If muggleborns and halfbloods didn’t have those same advantages, then it wasn’t his fault. It was the way the world worked. He benefited from the system, and so he would do nothing to break it. He would marry a halfblood when the time came because that was what the system wanted. Aldon would use the system to his advantage, twisting it to fit his desires. He didn’t care enough about halfbloods and muggleborns to hate them. 

The Bells were a different matter. 

Aldon didn’t hate the Bells because of their blood status; he hated them because of what they’d done to his family. He knew the story—he’d heard it from his grandfather. In an effort to mend bridges that had been burned centuries earlier, Elias had planned on marrying his daughter to the Flint heir, Marcellus. Instead, Helena had eloped with a muggleborn and Marcellus had killed himself. His younger brother, Julian, refused to believe that the wizard would commit suicide, insisting that it had been the Rosier’s doing. Helena’s elopement had rekindled an ancient feud that had nearly run its course. She’d made enemies of the Flints once more. 

She’d married a muggleborn wizard and had three children. _Three_. It was nearly unheard of to have three children in this day and age. Evan and Madeline had struggled to sire an heir, losing multiple children to the Fade. Helena Bell somehow managed to have three perfectly healthy children. Aldon hated her for that. He hated all the Bells for that. 

“Lady Cordelia’s waiting in the garden, sir,” Dilly said. The elf didn’t ask if he knew the way. Of course, Aldon knew the way. His grandmother might have been in the dower house for only a year, but he had been over to tea many times throughout the year, even when she was in mourning. Aldon strode purposefully through the house.

His relationship with his grandmother was complicated. She was similar to her son, and Aldon was similar to his father, so they got along well enough. Aldon always felt a sense of resentment from her, however. She had four grandchildren, but she’d only been able to be a grandmother to one of them. He didn’t believe that Cordelia blamed him for their lack in her life, but she didn’t spoil him as grandmothers were rumored to do. She stayed away, allowing Elias to take Aldon under his wing, teaching him the secrets of the Rosiers. 

Aldon stepped into the garden, doing his best to ignore the sickly sweet smell of roses that engulfed his senses. It should have been chilly, given that it was halfway through November, but the garden was magically maintained to be constantly springtime. Never too hot. Never too cold. Perfect, just as Cordelia demanded. 

Cordelia sat at a table, surrounded by floral arrangements that would have looked gaudy anywhere else but somehow managed to look tasteful. A pink witch’s hat sat atop her silver hair. Aldon was certain it was designer. His grandmother sat facing him, but her attention was on the blonde witch with her back to the door. Aldon frowned. He sincerely hoped his grandmother wasn’t trying to set him up. He’d rather keep her input on his marital prospects to a minimum. 

Approaching the table, Aldon bowed to Cordelia. “Grandmother, thank you for the invite,” he said with a polite smile before turning his attention to her companion. The smile dropped off his face. 

Sitting across from Cordelia was a tall witch wearing a nice set of baby blue robes, the same color as her eyes. Aldon recognized her, even if he’d never had the misfortune of meeting her before this moment. Katherine Bell. _Katie_. One of the three cousins he hated with every fiber of his being. 

“Thank you for accepting, Aldon. Please, sit down.” 

Aldon didn’t mistake his grandmother’s order as a suggestion. He dropped into the open seat in between the two witches. Cordelia poured him a cup of earl grey, dropping a finger sandwich onto his plate. Aldon eyed it suspiciously. He wouldn’t put it past his grandmother to lace the sandwiches with some sort of potion. The tea could be laced too, but Aldon wouldn’t risk his grandmother’s wrath at snubbing her. 

Cordelia sipped her tea with a pleased smirk. “Katie, this is your cousin, Aldon. He’s, oh, a year-and-a-half or so older than you. He’s in his seventh year in Slytherin.” 

“That’s one of the houses at Hogwarts,” Aldon explained condescendingly. He didn’t like Katie on principle. He would do everything that he could to remind her that they were different. She didn’t belong in his world—in his family. 

Katie frowned at him. “I know.” 

“Do you?”

“Believe it or not, I know a thing or two about Hogwarts.”

“Like what?” 

“Like that it’s a shitty school that keeps trying to kill its students,” Katie snapped. “I’m surprised you’ve made it this long. Clearly, you’re not the fastest bludger in the game.”

“Children,” Cordelia interrupted, her tone laced with warning. Katie looked slightly apologetic. Aldon stared at Cordelia, daring her to say more. He wouldn’t stand around and be insulted by this pretender. “Aldon, this is Katherine, but she goes by Katie. She’s in the fifth year of her education.”

Aldon’s eyes narrowed as quickly did the mental math. Katie was a year and a half younger than him, which meant that she’d been born in the summer of 1978. As a summer birthday, she was before the September 1st cut-off, which meant that if she’d been at Hogwarts she would have been in her sixth year. “Shouldn’t you be a sixth year?” he asked. 

Vindictive satisfaction flooding his chest as Katie’s cheeks reddened. “I was held back,” she muttered. 

“Why was that?” His parents would have never dared to hold him back. He was exceptionally talented. His magic had shown itself early. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Katie’s eyes blazed fiercely. She would’ve been a Gryffindor had they still allowed halfbloods into Hogwarts, he decided. She had that temper and brashness the house was known for. 

Aldon sneered. “I’d like to know why my cousin’s so deficient-”

“That’s enough!” Cordelia’s fist slammed on the table, rattling the glass. She glared at Aldon. “You need to get over whatever petty grudge you’re holding against the Bells this instant. They are rejoining the family whether you like it or not. Trust me when I say that I will ensure that you won’t be able to expel them again once I’m dead. You’ll get nowhere with hostility.” She turned to Katie. “And you, Katie, need to learn to trust people. We are your family. If you cannot trust us, then you cannot trust anyone. Aldon will do what’s in the family’s best interests. He won’t betray you. Snakes are fiercely protective of their own.” 

Katie was obviously affected by Cordelia’s words. She glanced at him sheepishly. “Let’s start again,” she said, offering Aldon her hand. “I’m Katie Bell. It’s nice to meet you.” 

Aldon glared at Katie. He didn’t like her, but, if Cordelia was right (and she always was), he didn’t have a choice in her being in his family. The Bells were coming back, whether he liked it or not. He would get nowhere with open hostility. “The pleasure’s all mine.” Taking Katie’s hand, he kissed it. Katie snatched her hand back quickly, smacking Aldon in the face in the process. Pain shot through his cheek. “Ow!”

“Sorry.” Katie winced.

Rubbing his sore cheek, Aldon demanded, “What was that for?”

“You weren’t supposed to kiss it,” Katie said, looking incensed as if he were the one who hit her. “You were supposed to shake it.” 

That caused Aldon to chuckle. “If that’s what you think, then we probably shouldn’t introduce you to society for several years. A shame. You’re nearly a desirable match given current circumstances.” 

Katie frowned. “Not you too. My mum keeps insisting on setting me up with someone from a nice _pureblood_ family.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Oliver’s nice, but-”

“Oliver Wood?” Aldon asked, surprised. Katie nodded. “You’re courting Oliver Wood?” Despite the fact he didn’t particularly like Katie, he didn’t want her being courted by Oliver Wood. He couldn’t stand a quidditch fanatic in his family, Aldon reasoned. Especially not a _Light_ quidditch fanatic. It would only bring further embarrassment to the Rosier name. 

“That won’t do,” Cordelia tsked. “Surely there’s someone more suitable. You’re friends with the Lestrange boy, aren’t you?”

“No.” Katie pointed from Cordelia to Aldon. “No. We are not doing this. If—when—I decide to get married, I will be the one choosing my partner. Just because I want to get to know my family doesn’t mean that I’ll let you control my life. You won’t just marry me off to whichever family you want an alliance with. That’s what got us into this problem in the first place.”

“Of course,” Cordelia insincerely agreed.

Aldon didn’t say anything. Katie was delusional. Marriage wasn’t something that was up to them. If you were lucky, your parents engaged you to someone when you were a child, giving you time to fall in love as you grew up together like Edmund. They weren’t as lucky. Aldon knew that his marriage wouldn’t be for love. Katie’s probably wouldn’t be either. _How long would it take her to realize that?_

Aldon didn’t care. Katie’s love life was not his problem. The less he had to do with the Bells, the better. They had only ever caused his family problems. He didn’t think that would change just because Cordelia decided to bring them back into the fold. He was smart enough to realize that, even if no one else in his family was.


	3. Accidental Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Franklin Bell waits at St. Mungos Hospital.

The scent of coffee pulled Franklin Bell from his fitful sleep. Blinking awake, his eyes focused first on the cup of coffee held before his nose then on the haggardly handsome man offering it to him. “Thanks,” his voice was groggy with sleep as he accepted the coffee. 

“No problem.” Sirius Black collapsed into the seat beside him, sipping his own coffee. The man had dark bags under his eyes, reflecting Franklin’s own lack of sleep. He hadn’t slept through the night in nearly a year. “I thought you could use it given you fell asleep out here.” 

The man was right, of course. Franklin was so exhausted that he’d fallen asleep in the corner of the St. Mungo’s waiting room, having stepped out for a moment following the latest round of tests. The results hadn’t been good. They’d begun talking to him about making other arrangements—of planning for the end. Franklin wouldn’t begin to think about those things. He refused to lose his darling bluebird. There had to be other options. 

“How’s Diana?” Franklin asked. Last he’d spoken to Sirius, the man had been hopeful. One of the doctors had proposed experimental treatment. It looked promising. That had been a week ago. Sirius’s wince was all the answer Franklin needed. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Sirius agreed. “She’s putting on a good face for Archie, but I don’t know how much longer we have. I just want…” The man stopped talking. Franklin didn’t push him. Their situations were similar in regards to what they wanted. Sirius wanted to save his wife. Franklin wanted to save his daughter. 

They’d struck up a tentative friendship in the long-term patient ward of St. Mungos, bonding over shared fears that neither of them dared to speak into existence. Helena rarely ever came to the hospital, focusing on the boys and the store instead. Franklin knew that she was scared. He didn’t blame her for not wanting to see Katie in her current state. It wasn’t pretty. Their once-lively daughter looked like a ghost. She was all but dead to the world. 

Sirius swallowed his coffee in one long gulp. “And Katie?”

“They starting to talk about the possibility of her Fading,” Franklin answered bluntly because there was no other way he’d be able to say the words. 

“Shit.” 

“Yeah.” Franklin sipped his coffee. “It’s just a theory, of course. No clue exactly what’s going on or how to fix her. Useless healers.” Sirius laughed harshly. Franklin ran a hand through his curly brown hair. Silver flecks were starting to appear. He was too young to go grey, but he’d willingly lose all of his hair if it meant he could get Katie back. “What they’re saying fits, unfortunately. She never did have much magic. We thought she was a squib until…”

Until she’d saved her idiotic brothers from dying. Elliot and Gilbert had been messing around in Franklin’s workshop, knocking around a bludger. They were sixteen and fourteen. They should’ve known better. Katie had followed them into the workshop, hovering near the door. The bludger had hit an experimental broom of Franklin’s. The enchantments on the bludger had interacted with the enchantments on the broom. It had exploded. Before the explosion could destroy Elliot and Gilbert, Katie put herself between the fire and her brothers. 

She hadn’t just held off the explosion. She’d forced the magic back into the bludger and the broom, reversing the explosion entirely. Then she’d collapsed. She’d been in a coma in the St. Mungos ever since. 

Katie had never been particularly magical. She’d never been magical at all. Elliot had performed his first bouts of accidental magic when he was three years old; Gilbert when he was a year-and-a-half. Katie had never displayed any signs of magic. She didn’t try to do things magically, always choosing the muggle way of doing things. Even her temper tantrums were void of magic. The family mediwizard had tested her magical core when she was four. His diagnosis confirmed what they’d assumed. It was small—tiny even for a growing witch. She’d probably never be able to access that magic. Katie was a squib.

Franklin hadn’t cared that Katie wasn’t magical. Helena had been a little disappointed, but she’d gotten over it quickly. They’d help Katie navigate their world without magic, they decided. Quidditch was a great place to start. The sport was what had brought Franklin and Helena together in the first place. Anyone could ride a broom. She didn’t need magic to love quidditch. She didn’t need magic to carve brooms. For three years, they did everything in their power to ensure that Katie never felt different for her lack of magic.

And then she’d saved her brothers.

Franklin swallowed. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep, but he didn’t want to leave Katie alone for too long. He stood, turning his attention on Sirius. “I hope Diana gets better. I really do.”

“So do I,” Sirius agreed, his gaze distant. That was the reality of the long-term patient ward—distant gazes and muttered wishes. They rarely came true. 

Leaving Sirius to himself, Franklin wandered through the hallways of St. Mungos, coming to a stop outside of Katie’s room. Cracking the door open, he surveyed the room from the doorway. Helena had filled it with flowers—daffodils, tulips, sunflowers. Everything except for roses. There was a couch that doubled as a bed against the far wall. A set of windows overlooked the Thames. Quidditch magazines were piled atop of the coffee table before the couch alongside Franklin’s carving tools. Katie’s own tools sat beside them. He’d hoped that she’d somehow sense them and wake up. She hadn’t.

Katie lay in a hospital bed in the middle of the room, her hair surrounding her like a halo. Her cheeks were sunken. Her skin was ghostly pale. Franklin could see her veins through her arms. He knew that she was cold to the touch, nearly freezing. She looked so small and fragile—nothing like the energetic girl who raced through the streets of Diagon Alley.

The original diagnosis had been that her body was in shock. Her magical core had left her body for three days after the incident. Three whole days. When it started to come back, the healers had told them that it was a waiting game. Once her reserves were replenished, she’d be as right as rain. That didn’t happen. 

The second diagnosis had been that her body was overwhelmed. Katie’s magical core had been minuscule before her burst of magic. That wasn’t the case anymore. It had nearly tripled in size. Where the magic had come from, no one could say. One healer had the audacity to claim that she’d stolen it, which wasn’t possible. Magic didn’t work like that. 

The third and most recent diagnosis was that Katie was Fading. Her body was failing. Her magic was giving up. She wouldn’t survive much longer. The healers had told him that it was time to start planning for her death. Franklin refused to do such a thing. 

“What’s wrong with her?” 

Franklin tore his gaze away from his daughter’s frail form. Standing in the doorway beside him was a boy of eleven. He looked about Hogwarts aged, with dark hair and even darker eyes. He cradled his arm close to his chest. It was probably broken, Franklin noted. He wondered how. 

“Her magic’s sick,” he answered. 

“How?”

“The healers don’t know.” He had no idea why he was telling the boy this. He didn’t know who the boy was or what he was doing there in the long-term care ward. “What are you doing here?”

“Broke my arm.”

“Emergency Care is on the other side of the hospital,” Franklin pointed out. There was no reason for a boy with a broken arm to be in this part of the hospital. 

“I know,” the boy responded, “I was just there.” 

“Why’d you wander off before getting healed?” 

The boy shrugged. “Felt like it.” He stepped into the room, focusing on Katie. Franklin followed after him, keeping a watchful eye on the boy. He was curious as to what he was thinking as he peered at Katie. “What happened to make her like this?”

“She saved her brothers.” Franklin was proud of her for doing so, even if he was disappointed in the boys for messing around in the first place. 

“That’s brave,” the boy said, “Definitely a Gryffindor.” He was a pureblood, Franklin realized. No one but a pureblood would start randomly assigning houses to girls they’d never met. “Too bad. Slytherin’s the best.” His fingers brushed the back of Katie’s hand. “She feels warm.” 

Stepping forward, Franklin took his daughter’s hand in his own. The boy was right. She was warm to the touch, getting warmer by the second. Hope bubbled in Franklin’s chest. After nearly a year was it possible that Katie was coming back to him? It seemed too good to be true. 

“Come on, Bluebird,” he whispered, holding her hand fiercely. “You’re strong.” Pulling up a chair, he sat down beside Katie, refusing to let go. His attention focused solely on his daughter, he didn’t hear the boy slip out of the room. When he finally noticed that he was gone, he didn’t care to ask where he’d disappeared to. He was thankful to the boy for noticing the change in his daughter’s condition.

Three hours later, Katie woke up. 


	4. Tolling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy strikes the Bell family.

This didn’t feel real.

Nothing for the past three days had felt real.

Katie felt as if she had unknowingly been inserted into a play, completing actions and saying lines that belonged to a different character. Not to her. She wasn’t the one who found her father in his workshop, a half-finished broom on the ground beside him. She wasn’t the one who’d floo-called St. Mungos, begging for help. She wasn’t the one who stood by in shock and watched as they took his body away. Some other girl had done that—not her. 

It didn’t feel real. Katie stood at the front of the small, muggle chapel, her unblinking stare watching people speak quietly. She had barely spoken ten words in the last three days. She hadn’t even told her mum what had happened, letting the mediwitch tell her instead. This wasn’t real. She would go home and find her father leaning over his workbench, a knowing glint in his eye as he asked her about her friend who liked brooms. He couldn’t be dead. Franklin Bell was a wizard. He couldn’t die from a seizure at fifty-six. He didn’t even suffer from seizures.

“Thomas went the same way.” A hand rested on Katie’s shoulder in what she was certain was supposed to be a comforting gesture. It wasn’t. Nothing could comfort her now. The man that she had looked up to and admired since she was a child was dead. Gone. 

She’d never see his smile again. She’d never work at his side again, watching him expertly weave charms into a broom. She’d never hear his laugh or be smothered in his hugs again. He’d ceased to exist. Franklin Bell was dead. 

Dead. 

Dead. 

Dead. 

It didn’t feel real. 

“It should have been me,” Patricia said. Katie found herself agreeing with her grandmother. She felt guilty for the thoughts. Tearing her gaze away from the closed chestnut coffin at the front of the sanctuary, she focused her attention on her father’s mother.

Katie hadn’t seen Patricia since her birthday. She was the opposite exact of Cordelia. Where Cordelia was refined and demanding, Patricia was soft and compassionate. She was named after this grandmother. The daughter of Norwegian immigrants, they’d given Patricia a British name, but her middle name was Katerine. Having been embraced by Franklin’s family—specifically his mother—Helena had promised to name her daughter after Patricia. 

“Don’t say that,” the words felt hollow flowing from Katie’s mouth. 

She let Patricia pull her into a hug. Her grandmother’s cheeks were wet. Katie frowned. She hadn’t been able to cry yet. Not when she found his body. Not when Elliot started making funeral arrangements. Not when Helena had given the eulogy. Gilbert had cried. Katie had watched the tears stream down his cheeks, wondering why she couldn’t cry. She should’ve cried. That’s what people did at funerals. 

It didn’t feel real.

“It was a beautiful service.” Pulling back, Patricia pat Katie on the cheek. “We will miss him forever, but the pain will get better.” 

Katie didn’t feel pain. She didn’t feel anything. Shock, maybe, but that was supposed to subside after the first day. She should’ve been feeling pain. She should’ve been feeling _something_. Five days ago, she’d been ready to throw tea in Aldon’s face for a handful of sneered words, but she couldn’t summon any of that anger now. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t in pain. She wasn’t anything. 

Something was wrong with her. 

Patricia moved away from Katie, greeting a pair of friends that had come to support her. They’d had a muggle funeral so Da’s family could come. He would’ve wanted his family at the funeral, Elliot and Helena had reasoned. They were right, of course. Franklin Bell loved his family dearly, even if he rarely ever saw them. They’d all come, even the second-aunts and third-cousins Katie had never met. They had come. All of them.

Katie’s attention drifted to where Helena and Elliot stood in the front of the chapel, thanking people for coming and accepting condolences. Katie didn’t want to hear those condolences. She didn’t want to hear what they had to say. Her father was dead. Nothing they said could bring him back. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Katie saw Gilbert slip out of the chapel through a door in the back. He was escaping. That sounded like a good idea. 

Katie chased after him, slamming the door open. “Gil!” she shouted. The man walked away from the chapel, heading towards an apparition point. He turned around as she shouted, pausing for her to catch up. 

“You’re not gonna go to the wake?” Gilbert asked.

Katie shook her head. “Where’re you going?”

“To get drunk,” Gilbert answered. He studied Katie for a moment. “You wanna come?” 

Gilbert was going to get drunk because he was in pain. He wanted to stop feeling that pain, forget for a moment. Katie didn’t feel pain. She already felt numb. Franklin Bell was dead. It didn’t feel real. 

“Yes.” Grabbing onto her brother’s arm, she felt the familiar tug of apparition. They disappeared with a snap.

* * *

They left him. Of course, they left him. 

Elliot sighed as he surveyed the church one last time. His father’s coffin had been taken to be buried in a proper wizard graveyard. Everyone had moved onto the wake, including his mother. She’d want him there, he knew that, especially since Gilbert and Katie had decided to leave without so much as a goodbye. _Classic_. 

He didn’t want to go to the wake. He didn’t want to listen to family members that he never talked to tell stories about his father. He would, though. He was the responsible one in the family. He was the one who stepped up and made the funeral arrangement. It was what he did. He would go to the wake because that was what his mother needed. 

He wished Gilbert had stuck around instead of disappearing to Merlin knew where. He’d expected it from Katie. She had a habit of vanishing for hours at a time. Elliot had never really worried about it. He wasn’t their parents. It wasn’t his job to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. She was a grown witch—nearly done with school. She could look after herself. If she hadn’t disappeared with Gilbert, he was sure she would’ve somehow found her way to Flint’s. Elliot supposed he should be thankful to Gilbert for saving her from making a mistake with their teammate. Flint was a good player, but Elliot didn’t like him. He never had. 

Being the eldest wasn’t easy. It was his job to be responsible and make sure his siblings didn’t make too many mistakes. Both Gilbert and Katie were prone to foolishness. They were ruled by their emotions. Gilbert never would’ve made it onto a professional quidditch team if it weren’t for Elliot. Trust him to leave Elliot alone in a time like this as thanks. 

He should leave. 

Just a minute longer. 

The priest shuffled around, cleaning out the pews. Elliot’s eyes followed the ancient man, tracking his movements. He was old—probably in his seventies or eighties, with wrinkled dark skin and thin silver hair. A set of square glasses perched on his nose, reminding Elliot of Gandalf the Grey. Franklin had read those books to all of them as children. Even if magic didn’t work that way, he insisted all his children experience the wonderful adventures Middle Earth had to offer.

Elliot would miss his father. Franklin Bell was a quiet man, easily overshadowed by his wife. He was wise beyond his years. Franklin was the only person Elliot had ever voiced his doubts and concerns to. He’d always had the best advice. 

Franklin had lost his own father at twenty-five, in the third week of November exactly as Elliot had—a seizure, according to Patricia. Elliot frowned at the diagnosis. Perhaps it was his paranoid mind playing games, but he was hesitant to label the similarities a coincidence. _This could be grief,_ he logically reasoned. He didn’t want to believe that his father’s death had been for no reason. Still… 

If there was one place he could find answers, it was in his father’s hometown. The Bells had been there for generations. 

Elliot cleared his throat, gaining the priest’s attention. The old man peered at Elliot, unsurprised to see him. “How can I help you, son?”

“Do you know where I could find a record of all of the families in the area?”

“Right here, of course. There’s a small archive in my office,” The priest said with a gap-toothed smile. “I wondered if you’d be interested in them.”

“Why?” 

“I have buried three Bell men in my lifetime—all of them in the third week of November. What age are you?” 

“Twenty-five,” Elliot answered. He’d be twenty-six in March. 

“I thought so,” the priest hummed. “The records are in my office. Follow me." Elliot did as the priest asked. The wake could wait a minute. He prayed that he was wrong.

* * *

The back door to Quality Quidditch Supplies was unlocked. The shop had been closed the entire day, yet the back door was unlocked. Marcus knew that he’d find Katie as he slipped inside. He’d expected to find her bent over a broom, focusing on it instead of her pain. He didn’t expect her to be laying on her worktable, staring up at the ceiling. Panic flooded Marcus’s chest as he realized she wasn’t moving. She wasn’t… She couldn’t be… 

“Kates.” Rushing to her side, Marcus let out a sigh of relief as she blinked up at him. Not dead. She wasn’t dead. His gaze flicked to the empty firewhiskey bottle and her snoring brother on the floor. Not dead, just drunk. 

“Marcus.” Katie’s fingers traced over Marcus’s jaw. A shiver went down his spine at the movement. “You’re here.”

“You’re drunk,” Marcus said. Reaching an arm around Katie’s shoulders, he helped her slowly sit up. Marcus leaned against the table, happy to let her rest his head on his shoulder with a contented sigh. 

“Not drunk,” Katie said. At Marcus’s raised eyebrow, she shrugged. “Maybe little drunk.”

“Maybe little,” Marcus repeated. 

He didn’t blame her. Franklin Bell’s funeral was today. Marcus didn’t know what he’d do if his mother died so suddenly. He’d do a whole lot more than getting drunk, he was certain. He’d probably commit patricide. Getting drunk was expected in this situation. 

Sadness was etched into the lines of Katie’s face. Marcus didn’t like seeing Katie like this. She was one of the few bright parts of his life—so full of joy, wit, and energy. Even if she didn’t know it, she’d always been there for him when he needed her to be. Through his ups and downs, Katie had been there, offering him friendship and a listening ear. Marcus wasn’t a talker, but he’d willingly listen to Katie for days. He would be there for her now. She needed him to be there for her—to be the friend she’d always been. 

He hoped he didn’t screw it up. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Marcus asked. 

Turning to face him, Katie frowned. “What’re you? My mother?” She snorted as an amusing thought crossed her mind. Marcus was surprised when she spoke those thoughts, but, then again, she was drunk. “Nope. She wouldn’t care. Not like you.” 

She stared up at him, those big blue eyes peering into his soul. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Marcus held his breath, waiting for her to say something else. _Not like you._ They may have never seen eye to eye, but Marcus knew that Helena Bell cared about Katie, in her own way. It was impossible not to care about Katie. Still, the words echoed around in his mind. 

“Not like you,” she whispered quietly. 

Caught up in his thoughts, Marcus didn’t notice Katie leaning towards him until her lips crashed into his. She kissed him. 

_What the fuck?_

Marcus’s eyes widened. Katie kissed him. It wasn’t a particularly aggressive kiss. Her lips touched his for a brief second—soft and warm. A simple brush of her lips against his. For a second, Marcus remained still, unsure of what to do. He was quickly overwhelmed by a sense of wrongness. This was wrong. Katie was drunk and mourning. She’d just lost her father. This was wrong. 

It shouldn’t happen like this.

This wasn’t what he wanted their first kiss to be like. 

He pushed away from Katie. She looked lost. Of course, she was lost—her father just died. She was in grief and drunk and Marcus was there to help. She didn’t actually want to kiss him. She was _drunk._ And, for once in his life, Marcus was going to do the right thing. “Trust me, Katie, you don’t want to go there.” 

Katie glared at him. “Why not?” 

Because no one in their right minds wanted to get romantically involved with Marcus Flint. She was drunk. She wasn’t in her right mind. 

Oh, how Marcus wished that she were. She was his best friend—his closest confidant. If she weren’t drunk, he would’ve kissed her back. He would’ve held her in his arms and sworn to never let go. He would’ve ruined the Flint name for her, not caring if he were disowned as her mother had been. If Katie had actually wanted him, Marcus would’ve given himself to her entirely. She was his best friend. Somewhere along the line, he’d fallen in love with her. 

_Fuck._

But she wasn’t in her right mind. She was drunk. Marcus didn’t want to lose her friendship. He didn’t want to become a mistake that she refused to face. “You’re drunk,” he explained. 

Katie’s eyes dropped to the floor, refusing to meet his gaze. “I am,” she agreed. 

Marcus had known that she had only kissed him because she was drunk, but it still hurt like hell to hear her admit it. He pushed aside the aching in his chest. “Let’s get you some food,” he said. “Gilbert could probably use some too. Then, you need to go home and get some sleep.” Katie hummed in agreement.

* * *

_Franklin Thomas Bell_

> _born 16 June 1938 to Thomas and Patricia Bell_
> 
> _married 2 March 1961 to Helena Ross_
> 
> _died 15 November 1994 (age 56)_

_Thomas Jonathan Bell_

> _born 8 April 1904 to Edmund and Rose Bell_
> 
> _married 17 July 1927 to Patricia Hagen_
> 
> _died 11 November 1963 (age 59)_

_Edmund Calvin Bell_

> _born 21 October 1886 to Thomas and Gertrude Bell_
> 
> _married 23 September 1903 to Rose Smith_
> 
> _died 14 November 1929 (age 43)_

_Thomas Samuel Bell_

> _born 15 March 1867 to Alistair and Jane Bell_
> 
> _married 1 May 1891 to Gertrude Cooper_
> 
> _died 10 November 1911 (age 44)_

Elliot’s eyes consumed the records before him, census data compiled throughout the centuries about his father’s family. He’d discovered more information about his family than he’d ever wanted to. Most of it was disheartening. 

Bell was derived from the bell-shaped sign on the door of the inn of his oldest recorded ancestor, William Bell. He was the only family member who didn’t fit the pattern. The father of three daughters one after another, then there was a sixteen-year gap before his son was born. After that, the pattern began. 

Starting with William’s son, Kenneth, every first-born Bell was a healthy boy. Even if the rest of the children were sickly and died, the first-born Bell persevered. On the third week of November following the first-born’s twenty-fifth birthday, the father died. This was true for William and Kenneth and every man after them. 

Halfway through the sixteenth century, one of Elliot’s ancestors, George Bell, noticed the curse and decided to become a priest instead, vowing himself to a life of celibacy. His father died when George was twenty-five, and then George died when his nephew was twenty-five. A century later, Jacob Bell had murdered his first-born son in an effort to save himself. He’d died that same night and it was later revealed that his mistress was pregnant with, yes, a son. The mistress and wife had raised the son, James, together. When James’s son, Charles, reached twenty-five, James died of a seizure.

The pattern continued. The first-born child in every generation was male. When he reached the age of twenty-five, his father died. When his son, or nephew, or bastard turned twenty-five, that man would die in the third week of November. There was no escaping it. 

Elliot shut the leather-bound book containing the town’s records with a thud. He sat in silence as the revelation sunk in. There was too much information here for this to be a coincidence. The facts were laid out neatly for Elliot to see, generations of trying to escape Fate piled one on top of another. The Bell bloodline was cursed. The first-born male in every generation was cursed. 

“I only took a look at it when I heard your father had passed,” the priest, who had introduced himself to Elliot as Father Michael, said. “I thought it was odd, but this… this is something else.”

 _It was magic_. Elliot held back a laugh at how absurd it was. His father’s family were muggles. They hadn’t even known that magic existed and yet they’d somehow managed to get themselves cursed. “It is interesting,” Elliot agreed. 

He had never actually considered having children of his own. He’d always wanted to eventually adopt a gaggle of kids, providing them with a home and a safe place to practice magic. He supposed the desire could be traced back to his general apathy towards sex. He’d never felt drawn towards others in a sexual manner, not like Gilbert was. He enjoyed friendship and he wasn’t against falling in love, but sex had never really been interesting to him. His father had been the only person who knew about his feelings on the subject. Sybil would think he was crazy if he ever revealed the fact to her. His current-girlfriend had hinted several times that she was eager for a roll in the sheets. She thought that he was being a gentleman, which flattered her. He didn’t know how to tell her that sex wasn’t something he wanted. 

If he adopted a child by blood-magic, then Elliot would die when that child reached twenty-five. If he didn’t, only adopting in the eyes of the law or fostering, then he’d die when Gilbert’s child was twenty-five. If Gilbert didn’t have children, then Elliot would die when Katie’s child turned twenty-five. There was no escaping this curse. 

“What are you going to do?” asked Father Michael.

“You’re not going to suggest that I devote my life as you have?” Elliot was surprised Father Michael hadn’t claimed he was the devil or tried to get him to repent. He had expected him to after reading the Bell’s history. 

Father Michael shook his head. “Your ancestor already tried that. It didn’t work for him.”

“No, it didn’t,” Elliot agreed. 

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find out everything that I can about this curse,” Elliot answered, “and then I’m going to break it.” The priest nodded, accepting the existence of curses. Elliot idly wondered if he was breaking the Statute of Secrecy. Then again, he wasn’t saying anything that a superstitious muggle wouldn’t.

“I wish you the best of luck,” Father Michael said. “If you ever find yourself in need of help, you know where to find me.”

Elliot wasn’t sure how much help the old priest could possibly be, but he still said, “Thank you.”

“May God be with you,” Father Michael said, patting Elliot on the shoulder before leaving him alone. 

The clock on the wall chimed the hour. He was an hour late to the wake. His mother would be disappointed. Sighing, Elliot pushed the book back into the priest’s old bookcase. The leather brushed quietly against the other covers. As Elliot turned to leave, a small green book stuffed in the corner of the bookcase caught his eye. Elliot recognized the spine. Pulling it out of the bookcase, Elliot was surprised to see the words _Quidditch for the Ages_ stamped across the front. He cracked open the book. It was a first edition, published in 1911, back when muggleborns were still allowed to attend Hogwarts.

 _‘Property of Michael H. Smith’_ was penned across the front page. _‘If found, please return to the Hufflepuff common room,’_ followed. Slipping the book back into the bookcase, Elliot felt the barest hints of a smile come to his face. Maybe the old priest knew more than he let on. 

Strolling out of the church, Elliot gripped his wand and apparated. He had a wake to attend and a curse to break. After that, he could begin to wonder about the old priest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tolling _(verb)_ \- (of a bell) announce or mark (the time, a service, or a person's death).
> 
> Would it help if I said that this has been planned since pretty-much the beginning? We love Franklin, but, this grew a plot, and with plot comes other things. We've got a family curse, and pureblood politics, not to mention Katie/Marcus's complete ineptitude at communicating. Marcus has the weirdest self-esteem issues due to his parents. On one hand, he knows that he's worthy of love because of his relationship with his mother, on the other, he thinks that no one could possibly love him because of his relationship with his father. Julian Flint's A+ parenting, everyone (this is sarcasm). 
> 
> Elliot's got a journey of his own to go on, for some reason. Seriously, when I said that this thing "grew a plot" I mean it. It was supposed to be a cute little series of one-shots, but, when you start thinking of ideas, they just keep coming. Also, Elliot's asexual. I know that in RBC most characters seem to swing both ways, but it's clear from Ginny's statement to Harry in FF that having a different sexual preference is viewed as strange. I wanted to explore that a little.
> 
> Anyways, buckle up, kids. Cause this ride's about to get bumpy. More canon/RBC characters are on their way. We're just getting started.


	5. Pigeons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nymphadora Tonks has a secret.

Nymphadora Tonks was tired. She was so fucking tired. 

Since she was a tiny tot on her mother’s lap, all that she’d ever wanted to be was an auror. They were the coolest, most-bad-ass group of wizards and witches in the magical world. Her dad had a tendency to compare them to muggle police officers, but they weren’t anything like the muggle police. Sure, there were some aurors who patrolled the streets, handing out tickets for apparition violations, but Alistair Moody wasn’t one of them. Alastor Moody tracked down and captured evil wizards and witches. He was the créme de la créme of the Auror department, and he was her mentor.

He was also a pain in the ass.

 _Constant vigilance!_ Tonks was tempted to get it tattooed on her arm. Maybe then Moody would stop putting her through ridiculous trials, forcing her to complete asinine tasks and spend her Friday nights trudging after him through the lower alleys. She could feel hostility seeping from every corner. They weren’t wanted here. These weren’t the shiny streets of Diagon Alley where children ogled them, whispering tales of how amazing the aurors were behind their hands. They weren’t welcome. 

The ironic part was that Tonks had actually spent a decent portion of her childhood in the lower alleys. She’d been a bored halfblood girl with the ability to shapeshift. Given that the lower alleys were strictly off-limits, they’d been incredibly interesting. The first time she’d slipped into the lower alleys, she’d been eight. She’d changed her appearance, transforming into a pale, freckled girl with dark hair and eyes the color of ice. In the lower alleys, Nymphadora Tonks didn’t exist. She’d given herself the kind of name she’d always wanted—short, cool, and to-the-point. 

_Bex_.

Bex knew things about the lower alleys that Tonks would never tell Moody. She loved being an auror, but the lower alleys looked after their own. Bex belonged to the alleys, so Tonk’s wouldn’t spill her secrets. Besides, as Bex, she’d learned several skills that had landed her in the auror program. Normal twenty-two-year-old halfbloods couldn’t make it into the auror program, let alone become Alastor Moody’s apprentice. Tonks was something special.

But Tonks wasn’t welcome in the lower alleys. She especially wasn’t welcome while following Alastor Moody. They weren’t wanted here. Tonks had no idea why he’d dragged her down here in the first place. Wait, she did. _Constant vigilance!_ She’d been working for the last eighteen hours. She was tired. 

They stopped in a shady back alley. Tonks held back a wince as she read the sign on the building before them, The Lamia Lodge. They were in vampire territory—not a good place for two aurors to be. “What’re we doing here?” Tonks asked.

“We must be constantly vigilant,” was Moody’s answer. Of course. Tonks didn't know why she'd expected anything else. “There’s been suspicious activity in this area.”

“They’re vampires,” Tonks pointed out. “It’d be suspicious if they weren’t suspicious.”

Moody’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know they’re vampires?” 

Right. Tonks didn’t know anything about the alleys. “Lucky guess.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Lamia’s the name of some sort of snake-woman that eats kids. I don’t know. My Greek creatures are rusty.”

“That won’t do,” Moody said. “You never know when you’ll encounter a lamia in the wild.” 

She was fairly certain that lamias were extinct—there hadn’t been a sighting for several centuries—but she didn’t dare tell Moody that. Besides, she could probably drag Rigel to Greece and they’d stumble on half a dozen of the buggers. Then her other cousin would write a ballad about Rigel’s accomplishments and probably almost die. Merlin, her cousins were trouble-magnets. Well, Rigel was a trouble-magnet. Draco had the misfortune of being his sidekick, which meant that his life was, apparently, constantly on the line. Caelum was a prick. _This was what happened when you intermarried too much,_ Tonks thought. Trouble-magnets, sidekicks, and pricks. And shapeshifting bird-talking freaks. 

The Blacks were a mess.

“Constant vigilance,” Tonks said sarcastically. 

“Right you are, Tonks.” Moody either didn’t notice her sarcasm or chose to ignore it. Tonks didn’t know which one was funnier. “Keep watch out here while I interrogate the suspects.” 

“What suspects? I thought you said it was just generally suspicious.” Moody didn’t answer her as he stormed into the viper pit. Literally. Tonks debated going inside for a moment to pull her mentor out of trouble but decided against it. He was Alastor fucking Moody. Surely, he could handle a couple of suspicious vampires. 

Tonks leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. Dressed in her auror robes, she stood out like a sore thumb; she was a prime target. That needed to change. Now. Glancing around the alley, Tonks cast a silent detection spell. It came back negative. No one was watching her at the moment. The Rogue’s eyes had certainly spotted them the moment they entered, but none of the higher-ups had arrived yet. Tonks knew that would only last for a few minutes.

Transfiguring her robes into a plain black set, Tonks closed her eyes and focused on transforming. Her hair grew, changing from bubblegum-pink to black, tumbling over her shoulders. She grew several inches, going from her nearly-petit height to slightly-above-average. Her skin lightened, quickly being marred with freckles. Her facial features softened. Her nose flattened. Her ears grew larger. When she opened her eyes, they were icy blue. Nymphadora Tonks wasn’t standing in the alley outside of the Lamia Lodge anymore. 

She was Bex. 

And Bex belonged here. 

Crossing the alley, she scaled the wall, perching in the open window across the street. The buildings surrounding the Lodge were mostly unoccupied, used for storage, and by a handful of gangs that came and went. From here, she could see both the entrance to the Lamia Lodge and the alleys leading up to it. It would give her time to transform back if Moody came out without her looking out-of-place. Leaning against the windowsill, Bex resisted the urge to close her eyes and drift off.

She was really fucking tired. 

Moody would regret dragging her around like this. She wasn’t sure how yet, but she was going to make his life a living hell. Despite her desire to help people as an auror, she was a trickster at heart. He’d pay. 

A tall figure strolled into the alley below with the grace of a cat. Bex recognized the gait of the man below. She’d be a horrible auror if she wasn’t able to recognize it after all these years. He glanced around the alley, focusing on Lamia Lodge. Sticking two fingers in her mouth, Bex whistled. Leo’s head snapped up. He tilted his head to the side upon seeing Bex. She hadn’t been down this way much recently. Bex offered him a friendly wave. 

Following the same path Bex had taken, Leo climbed the wall, joining her on the windowsill. “Bex,” he said by way of greeting, sitting down beside her. 

“Leo,” Bex smirked, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I could say the same thing,” said Leo. “Haven’t seen you around these part in a while.”

“And you’ve seen me other places?” Bex knew that he hadn’t. She only existed in the lower alleys. Outside of them, she was Nymphadora Tonks. He wouldn’t recognize her in her daily form. 

“Nope,” Leo answered honestly. “Where’ve you been?”

“Exploring.” Leo would let the non-answer slide. He had his own secrets to keep. They all did here. The lower alleys were built on secrets. 

“You know, I’d ask you to be in the Court if you stuck around longer,” Leo said. “We could use someone with your skills.”

Bex snorted at that. Her skills: metamorphmagi, which Leo didn’t know about, and the bizarre ability to speak to pigeons. Pigeons didn’t speak, of course. They simply carried the voices of the dead. Because that wasn’t a weird thing _at all_. She’d told Leo about that ability several years back when he started questioning how she was so sure about a murderer in the lower alleys. He’d accepted it fairly well. Then again, Leo was a bit odd himself. 

“Can’t,” Bex said. “Too much out there to see.” 

“You and Will are the same,” Leo muttered. Bex laughed at that. She wondered if Leo realized the irony of his statement. Knowing Leo, he probably did on some level. “Why’re you keeping an eye on the aurors?”

“Two aurors enter the alleys and you expect me not to take a look,” Bex scoffed. “Please. You know me better than that.”

“How long have you been trailing them?”

“Since they arrived,” Bex answered truthfully. “The man’s Alastor Moody. The girl’s probably his apprentice. He left her to keep watch, but she wandered off.” Technically, it wasn't a lie. Bex had learned a long time ago that it was best to tell Leo as much of the truth as possible. 

“And you didn’t follow her?”

“Who would you keep an eye on: the apprentice or the master?”

Leo smirked. “Both.”

“Unlike you, majesty, I only have one set of eyes,” Bex said. “Moody’s the bigger threat here. Wanted to make sure he didn’t piss off the vamps too much.” 

As if he’d heard her statement, Moody chose that moment to storm out the door. “I’ll be keeping an eye on this establishment!” he shouted as the door was slammed in his face. Turning to the alley, he proceeded to curse in several languages Bex didn’t recognize when he realized that Tonks had vanished.

“Looks like he’s not happy about his apprentice wandering off,” Leo said. “Think she’s dangerous?”

“All aurors are dangerous,” Bex answered. It was the truth. All of them were dangerous, just some more so than others. She was probably in the bottom half of the group given her age and inexperience. Moody was at the top, alongside James Potter. 

“Right,” Leo agreed. “I should make sure they don’t cause more trouble.” 

“I’ll leave you to it.” 

“Don’t be a stranger, Bex.” Leo jumped down from their perch, landing with a roll. He stood, dusted himself off, and walked away. 

“Show off,” Bex shouted after him, shaking her head. She waited for Leo to vanish. With another detection spell to make sure that no one was watching, she detransfigured her auror robes, her appearance melting back into the one she usually wore—a slightly more awesome version of her genetic appearance. 

Moody would probably kill her for leaving him.

Good. Let him panic. This could be the beginning of her revenge against him for dragging her around for hours on end. She was only human. She needed to sleep. 

Before she could jump down from her perch, a pigeon sailed onto a ledge sticking halfway out of the building, just out of Tonks’s reach. It was brown with a handful of silver feathers. Tonks sent the pigeon a pleading look. “Please don’t talk,” she begged. 

“Why would you say that?”

_Oh. Fuck._

The voice was deep. Mature. A man’s voice. He didn’t sound young, but it was hard to tell. He sounded genuine. Tonks hated that. It was never the evil who sailed on the wings of pigeons but the spirits of decent humans. 

Tonks had driven herself mad trying to figure out how spirits could be carried by pigeons when ghosts _actually_ existed. The conclusion she’d come to was the spirits on pigeons were the ones who actually wanted to move on but couldn’t because they had unfinished business. Ghosts wanted to remain in the realm of the living. She didn’t know if that explanation was correct, but it made sense to her, so she wouldn’t devote any more time to debating ghosts and spirits. 

“Who’re you?” Tonks asked the most important question first.

“Franklin Bell,” he answered. “Who are you?”

A polite man, Tonks noted. She didn’t have time for a polite man. “Tonks.” If she made a jump for it, she might be able to catch the pigeon carrying Franklin Bell’s spirit. Trying not to frighten the bird, she stood slowly. The bird shifted, looking ready to take off. No. Not yet. Tonks lunged. 

The pigeon took off into the night sky, slipping through Tonks’s fingers. "Fuck!" She lost her balance and plummeted to the street below. “Fuck!” She barely managed to cast a cushioning charm to break her fall. She landed on the street with a soft thud. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” The pigeon had vanished. Her chance at discovering who Franklin Bell was and how he had died was gone. She’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. 

Standing up, Tonks didn’t bother to brush off her robes as she stormed off in the direction Moody had vanished. She wondered if she could convince him to look into Franklin Bell’s death—if Bell was a wizard, that was. There was a chance he was a muggle which could cause Tonks problems, because, despite herself, she really liked helping the souls free themselves from the pigeons. She liked helping people. It was one of her weaknesses. She'd help a muggle soul reach the afterlife just as quickly as she'd help a magical one.

“Looks like I’ve got a new mission,” Tonks muttered to herself as she strolled through the dark, hostile streets. “Franklin Bell, I hope you’re easy to find.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tonk's internal monologue was fun to write. I refuse to believe that she doesn't swear like a sailor. Also, Tonks can literally transform herself into any person she wants. That is so underutilized in canon.
> 
> I was not originally planning on having a Tonk's POV. She was just supposed to play a minor role in Elliot's story, like the one Caelum plays in Katie's. And then I started thinking about Tamora Pierce's books. And then I started thinking about Beka Cooper. There were too many similarities for me not to do it. 
> 
> So, yes, now this romantic-comedy-that-turned-into-a-soap-opera is also a crime thriller. Kind of.
> 
> (Just to be clear, Franklin was killed by a familial bloodline curse. He's just riding around a pigeon at the moment because he has unfinished business, aka making sure that the curse is broken).
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments. They're great to read and light up my day.


End file.
